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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22764784">Ringing Me to Hell</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vitreous_Humor/pseuds/Vitreous_Humor'>Vitreous_Humor</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ballads, Gen, Kink Meme, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Unfair Witch Ratings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 12:20:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,722</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22764784</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vitreous_Humor/pseuds/Vitreous_Humor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“So glad you find it funny, the idea of having one of the most humiliating moments of your life immortalized into song and then flung into your face at every opportunity.”</em> </p><p>  <em>“Be fair, Crowley, you have been humiliated far more severely than when-”</em> </p><p>  <em>“Don't say it.”</em></p><p> </p><p>-<br/>For a prompt on the kink meme where the devil in myth and folklore is one of the demons from Good Omens. Crowley loses a battle of wits to a ten-year-old, and it's immortalized in a surprisingly catchy song.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>77</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ringing Me to Hell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2010</p><p>It had mostly been a good day. Crowley was fairly pleased. She had managed to foment unrest in the Dowling household staff by suggesting that the wages of the outdoor staff could at least start to match that of the indoor staff, Harriet Dowling took one more step towards considering a life on a lesbian commune (“I don't know... with sheep or something”) and Warlock was emerging as a delightfully evil child in spite of the angel's meddling.</p><p>All in all, a day she could be proud of until in the middle of drying Warlock off after his bath, she realized what he was singing.</p><p>
  <em>No...</em>
</p><p>“My dark lord and master,” Crowley said after rather uncomfortably swallowing a lick of hellfire. “May I ask what you are singing?”</p><p>“S' a song,” Warlock proclaimed from under the towel. “I'm singing.”</p><p>“Oh yes, of course you are, your darkness,” she said. “But..<em>. that </em>song. Wherever did you hear such a rotten thing?”</p><p>“Bruvver Francis.”</p><p>The Supreme Lord of Darkness yawped as Crowley got a little too enthusiastic scrubbing his hair dry.</p><p>“Oh <em>did </em>he. What an... angel he is. Yes. What an <em>angel.”</em></p><p>“Bruvver Francis says angels are great and terrible wheels burning inna sky, singing the names of God.”</p><p>“Yes. They are also-”</p><p>Warlock squeaked at the words that Crowley used, and she gave him a slightly awkward look.</p><p>“Um, let's forget all about those words, all right, my duck? They're, er, forbidden.”</p><p>“Like the curse of the Red Plain of Herron?”</p><p>“No, no, the curse on the Red Plain of Herron is just fine. Come on. Time for bed, and I'll sing you a proper song. Not like that rubbish you've learned from that dirty old gardener.”</p><p>-</p><p>Later-</p><p>The door to the gardener's cottage blew halfway off its hinges, and Crowley glared at Aziraphale, who was having what seemed to her to be a very offensive cup of tea in his incredibly irritating old armchair.</p><p>“Angel!”</p><p>“Demon,” Aziraphale replied, raising an eyebrow. “Is all well?”</p><p>“All is most bloody <em>not </em>well, and you bloody well know it!” Crowley seethed. “Where do you get the gall, where do you get the <em>nerve...”</em></p><p>“Crowley, really. What is the matter? You come in here, bashing in my poor door, and...”</p><p>“That <em>song! </em> I was giving Warlock his bath, and he's singing <em>that song!”</em></p><p>Aziraphale relaxed, covering up what absolutely looked like a most unangelic snicker.</p><p>“Oh, is that all? I was wondering if it had stuck...”</p><p>Crowley glared as Aziraphale moved around her, miracling the door back into a door-shape. Honestly, the <em>cheek.</em></p><p>“So glad you find it <em>funny, </em>the idea of having one of the most humiliating moments of your life immortalized into song and then flung into your face at every opportunity.”</p><p>“Be fair, Crowley, you have been humiliated far more severely than when-”</p><p>“<em>Don't </em>say it.” She threw herself in his terrible chair, arms crossed over her chest.</p><p>“None of that stuff ever happened anyway, what would I ever want with sheep and cows?” she muttered.</p><p>“Ah. What shall I say instead?”</p><p>“<em>I'm sorry I am such a wretched excuse for an angel and-”</em></p><p>“No, try again.”</p><p>Crowley groaned.</p><p>“Ugh. Tea. And if there's only tea in the cup, I'll know you for a rotten ball of dirt who never liked me even a little.”</p><p>“Quite right, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said, reaching for the bottle of whisky. He may have still be snickering, the bastard, but he kept it quiet enough that Crowley could ignore it until she had gotten her tipple.</p><p>-</p><p>1406</p><p>It had been a <em>great </em>night.</p><p>The witches of Rook Hall were still a long way from giving the witches of Pendle Hill or Bideford a run for their money when it came to the Grand Sabbats, but for general full moon fun and mischief, give Crowley a country witch any day. The sheer amount of ground they covered, the number of cattle they frightened half to death, and then all that followed by a cordial and cheese tasting. It was all very impressive, and if he were being perfectly honest, Pendle Hill never really rolled out unless you were a duke or higher. Rook Hill was just happy to be part of the conversation, and they had been delighted to see him.</p><p>Five stars as soon as he got back home; witches of Rook Hall, <em>highly </em>recommended.</p><p>Of course first he had to get home, and that before the church bells rung. He wasn't quite clear on the whys and wherefores; it mostly boiled down to the new fifteenth century being downright weird. He didn't have to understand it. He just knew he had to beat the church bells to his doorstep or find himself back in Hell for a round of paperwork and morning meetings. It was fine. He had plenty of time.</p><p>He had plenty of time until he came to the neck in the road at Canbree. Old-growth forest on both sides, the road narrowed down to a cow path that then narrowed down to a chicken path, and standing straight in his way was a little boy with a bag over his shoulder and a stubborn look on his pie-face.</p><p>“Er, hi,” Crowley said. “Could you see your way to moving to one side of the road or the other?”</p><p>The child gave him a long look.</p><p>“You're the devil, aren't you?”</p><p>“No,” said Crowley automatically. “Of course I'm not. Where would you get that idea?”</p><p>“You have eyes like a snake.”</p><p>Crowley smacked his bare face, immediately regretted it when his head rang, and groaned. That was right. He had let Mary wear his tinted glasses after she won first place with her raspberry-juniper cordial, and he had never gotten them back. Four stars for the witches of Rook Hall, great cordial, lousy at returning demonic property.</p><p>“All right, fine, I'm the devil,” he said, “but I'm also just getting home from a party, and if I could just get by...”</p><p>“You're not supposed to give way to the devil,” the little boy said firmly, and Crowley stared.</p><p>“Who told you that?”</p><p>“The priest did.”</p><p>“Did he also tell you that there's treasure buried under that one oak tree by your house? 'Cause I'm telling you that. Maybe you ought to run and dig it up.”</p><p>The child gave him an unimpressed look, and Crowley frowned.</p><p>“Kid. Come on. Just step to one side or the other and let me by. It's not hard. I'll give you...”</p><p>He rummaged in his purse which was... huh. Empty.</p><p>Fuck. Right. He had lost that arm-wrestling match with Clym, and she had cleaned him out. Damn it. Three stars for the witches of Rook Hall, cheaters all.</p><p>“I'll make no deals with the devil,” the boy proclaimed, and Crowley groaned.</p><p>“Come on, you are <em>killing </em>me here. Just go... do whatever it is that kids do, climb a tree or whatever. Move.”</p><p>“I'd be fine if I had a ladder underneath me, wouldn't I?”</p><p>“What? Sure, whatever, whatever. How about a swim? Why don't you go for a nice swim in whatever millpond they've got, and-”</p><p>“My brother drowned in a millpond.”</p><p>Crowley stared.</p><p>“The fifteenth century really is just a rum deal for you lot, isn't it? Um, look. Just move. I have to get by. I've got to get home, got big important evil things to do.”</p><p>“I've got to go to school,” said the boy, not budging an inch and Crowley glared. That was right, Sophie had been talking last night about the witches of Rook Hall making a group donation to the local schools. Being part of the community, his left foot. Two stars for Rook Hall if they couldn't keep themselves from doing <em>good works. </em></p><p>“School's a rotten proposition anyway, surely you know that? They don't teach anything but sitting still and obeying authority, right or wrong.”</p><p>“The priest says that literacy will be our path to a finer future.”</p><p>“Wait, who is this priest anyway?” Crowley asked, who was beginning to put two and two together to come up with an angel. “Anyway, don't listen to priests, they're all messes...”</p><p>“This one does rather like pies more than any priest I've ever met,” the boy admitted, and Crowley clapped his hands. All right. A dent in the faith of the faithful, he could work with this.</p><p>“Right, and an angel- er, priest that will eat pies is a priest who will sleep in of a Sunday, and priest that will sleep in of a Sunday will commit all sorts of gross acts of heresies, so believe you me you ought... wait, what's that ringing?”</p><p>The boy cocked his head.</p><p>“Church bells,” he said calmly. “Sounds like Hell wants to talk with you.”</p><p>Hell did. Hell also wanted his last two hundred years of back paperwork done, and if he could bring along three dozen donuts to the 8 AM meeting that would be grand. Crowley threw up his hands and groaned.</p><p>“<em>Fucking</em> Rook Hall,” he snarled, and headed downstairs.</p><p>-</p><p>2010, again</p><p>Crowley awakened with her feet propped up on a battered ottoman and a fluffy blanket tucked up around her chin. Her sunglasses had been removed and folded neatly on the table next to her. It should have left her feeling out of sorts and vulnerable to have them removed while she slept. Instead, she only touched them lightly, leaving them where they were as she rose with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.</p><p>She followed the sounds of clinking silverware and china to the kitchen, where Aziraphale, thankfully minus the terrible disguise, was doing the washing up, and singing a little as he did so.</p><p><em>He has such a nice voice, </em>she thought idly, leaning in the doorway. <em>I know all angels do, but his really is pleasant.</em></p><p>One guess what the angel was singing, but Crowley was too soft and warm to be more than mildly irritable. Instead, she simply stood and listened.</p><p><em>Catchy, </em> she thought begrudgingly.</p><p>Aziraphale glanced at her over his shoulder, and she thought he would stop, but instead he only winked at her and continued.</p><p>
  <em>"As I wish you were in younder tree," says the false knight on the road</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"A ladder under me," says the wee boy and still he stood...</em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>-If you're curious about the song in question, it's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GHqFyRT1AhU">here</a>. The Fause Knight on the Road is genuinely a little weird. The best I can figure is that the kid has to stand up to the devil until the church bell rings. Right of way is COMPLICATED in the fifteenth century...</p><p>-Kink Meme prompt <a href="https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2071897">here</a>.</p><p>-I don't always hide from my current WIPS on the kink meme, but when I do, I'm writing about weird 17th century songs. Pretty sure this is one of the later of Child's offerings.</p><p>-This one's catchy! I bet Crowley HATES that!</p><p>-Anyone else a bit soft for the idea of Aziraphale singing? No? Just me?</p><p>-Rook Hall did not deserve that rating, and I will defend the quality of their cordial- and cheese-tasting to the death. Fuck you, Crowley, they did not deserve that!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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